


Though the Stars Walk Backward

by Brit Hux-Tico (birchwoods01), ElfMaidenOfLight



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Gingerflower, Gingerose, Gingerrose - Freeform, Masturbation, Wet Dream, brief contemplation of noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25754665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birchwoods01/pseuds/Brit%20Hux-Tico, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElfMaidenOfLight/pseuds/ElfMaidenOfLight
Summary: The mark Rose has left on a certain First Order general continues to reverberate through both their lives.For Rose, the sketch she's made of Hux after their encounter continues to plague her. Despite her best efforts, it worms its way even into her dreams.For Hux, he cannot seem to forget the Resistance girl's defiance even if he wants to. She haunts his thoughts, taking up residence in subconscious like she's meant to be there.While fast sleep, the mind is free to play its tricks, unlocking one's fears, fantasies, and deepest desires.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico
Comments: 48
Kudos: 71





	1. Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mini-work inspired from a prompt shared in the Gingerrose Discord by Ninjatome and built upon by Ngoc12theFangirl: 
> 
> Rose's canon journal drawing of General Hux is hanging on the wall beside her bed. One night Rose has a sex dream about Hux. When she wakes, she turns the drawing away as if it could spy on her. 
> 
> Written in two parts: Part I by Brit Hux-Tico & Part II by ElfMaidenofLight.

_dive for dreams_

_or a slogan may topple you_

_(trees are their roots_

_and wind is wind)_

_trust your heart_

_if the seas catch fire_

_(and live by love_

_though the stars walk backward)_

_honour the past_

_but welcome the future_

_(and dance your death_

_away at this wedding)_

_never mind a world_

_with its villains or heroes_

_(for god likes girls_

_and tomorrow and the earth)_

_ee cummings_

~*~

The hallways are cast with their typical obsidian hue, but for some odd reason they stand out to Rose as peculiar. The only lights are small vertical sconces in the walls, both at the floor and ceiling, releasing a soft golden white glow that shines across her black, perfectly polished First Order issue boots. Her form is cast in a miasma of color and shadow as she moves, mouse timid, down the hallway, headed in a direction her body knows by heart even as her mind does not.

She stops and turns to look out a viewport as she passes. The vast blackness of space spans before her, elongating deeper and speeding away from her eyes as she searches its depths for answers. She presses her gloved hands to the transparisteel rimmed edge of the wide circular view, and breathes an auditory sigh of wonder. 

The stars are tiny pinpricks of light. There is nothing but the sound of stillness and silence. 

Then a rustle of fabric, a sharp breath, taken in surprise. 

Larger, gloved palms cover the back of her hands, digits sprawling like the cryptic limbs of a spider. Fingers slot between hers, and a tall, hard-edged body, thin, yet sharp as a knife, presses her into the wall. 

Rose is all at once terrified and aroused, swaying on the spot with horror as deep as her interest and curiosity, as a broad nose runs, tip toe careful, down her neck, and a scent fills her head, swirling and heady, familiar. 

_Rose, on her knees, seething with feral fury, as seafoam green eyes study her with careful disdain, and a touch… the lightest, as a lover, but posessively hostile, to her chin. She endures it, the fire building in her throat, a dragon pinned of wing, and she opens her maw, exhales heat, and snaps her teeth onto his finger. His scent swirls around her as she huffs in air, cloying yet sultry soft, churning her stomach in nauseous loops._

Now is not the same. Even as she turns, even as she knows the face she will see when she looks up in the dark, she is torn.

_Fealty or fear…?_

General Armitage Hux drinks in her face with an expression that can only be likened to awe. He examines her as one might an organism beneath a microscope, with the proud, elegant sort of slant to his eyes only a man who’s made a great, life-changing discovery might possess. 

He touches her as if she is fragile, gossamer and glass. He clasps her chin, raises her head, and Rose inside is screaming _no no no no NO_ but she turns and lets it happen, bobs her throat in a swallow at the feel of his leather against her skin. 

His tongue is down her throat and she gags on it with delight, mouth slippery hot and fiery as she opens herself up to his kiss. Her hands hang off his arms, clutching him as she trembles, and when he pulls from her, their saliva tethers them still, a tie that binds, until it snaps and dangles off her chin. 

His smile is the one a snake gives before it consumes its prey whole. 

He cleans her chin with his thumb, passes that same thumb over her lips, smearing their combined spittle there, eyes narrowing with delight at the shine it leaves. Rose is entranced, held still in his arms, his captive. 

He leans and whispers something in her ear, and it is decades, eons before she deciphers it, the dulcet tones of his despicable Imperial accent bouncing around her empty, rattling skull as he creeps a hand down, down, down, and squeezes her ass, making her pussy moan and drool between her legs. 

“Come with me, Major,” is what he said, but by the time she knows it, by the time she understands, they are moving, she is following, they are going. 

Inside she groans, she screams, she rattles the bars of her mind. She knows and remembers the stench of him, the taste of his awful blood and leather; remembers the hideous smirk of delight he bestowed upon her as he gloated in victory. 

_No no no no no_ she moans. 

But she makes no sound, and follows him into his lair. 

The room within which he lives is a feeling, not a place. In this space, the air is cold and harsh; it causes her nipples to pebble hard beneath her bindings as he helps divest her of her First Order teal jacket. The walls are black and seem to breathe, moving in and out around her if Rose looks at them too long. 

The bed upon which he lays her is soft and speaks to her. It whispers things in her ear, warnings and praises, invites her to stay as long as she wishes, to relax at her leisure. 

She does, spreads herself out along the soft black linens, sighs and curls her toes as he pulls her pants, socks, boots from her feet with a grazing brush of his still gloved palms. 

She is nude before him yet he stands, rimmed in shadow and fully clothed, the harsh razor sharp General, hair on fire, exactly the same as he stood above her and pronounced her execution status. 

It is execution again, his eyes say. 

His hand glides up her belly, her skin dancing beneath his touch, and elicits a sigh from her lips as he tips two fingers below her chin, just as he did on that fateful day. 

It is a test. 

Rose submits, closes her eyes and tilts her head back, exposing the creamy expanse of her throat, ignoring the tiny voice in her head screaming _no, no_ , growing smaller each and every second. 

The bed dips beneath the weight of his knee, cloth shuffling against the softness of her thighs as he kneels between them. One hand gathers her wrists, pulls them high over her head, and holds them pinned there. Her hands curl into light fists, compliant, still. 

She watches his face as he moves, bends over her, studies the pale, ginger shade of his lashes as they flutter, warming her tummy like cinnamon butter. He kisses the tip top of an exposed breast, full lips press and stick and pull away, tongue lapping in swirls of exaltation as he sighs over her skin. 

She writhes beneath him, tugging slightly in his grip, but it is steel. 

He scrapes her with his teeth, curving her spine into the touch and drawing a low, guttural whine from behind her lips. He snaps at the edge of her binding, pulls and tugs it down as he draws his chin over her belly. The binding loosens; her breasts spring free, and he is speaking again. 

His words murmur in her ears, ebbing and flowing like the tide as he assaults her with the venom of his tongue, dips it into her belly button like a bee seeking pollen, swirls his saliva in painted portraits over her flesh. 

“Kitten” he calls her when she mewls, “petal” when she sighs, and “dearest” when she moans, then “priestess of his soul” and “goddess divine”. She understands deep in her heart that this is false, an imaginative Armitage Hux who could never be a devoted worshiper, but then his eyes find hers as he nears her sex, and her head spins. 

He is sweet, pure sugar cane syrup in his expression. He palms her hips, kisses her labium with open mouth and swirling tongue, his eyes never once leaving hers, and she is raw, gutted, splayed open with parts of her scattered about his bed. 

His hypnotic eyes hold hers, and she cannot look away, even as he ploughs his tongue through her, curls the muscle and vibrates it rough against her pleasure points, grazes her soft swollen parts with his teeth, moans a sigh of worship deep within her. She is lost, ship spinning at sea, tossed among waves, as he pulls and tugs and shoves her around with merely his mouth. 

His fingers are there, suddenly, from nowhere, curling within her, and she is pinned by that stare, even as waves rise and thunder rumbles and lightning splits the sky. He pumps within her, flexes until he is knuckle deep, and Rose sails into the eye of the storm, careening to a still as everything within her body stops- heartbeat and lungs seize, and with one further jerk of his tongue, she shatters and falls. 

Her screams of delight are a symphony. She presses a hand to her face as she moans, delirious, shakes and trembles, and sweat chills the surface of her flesh.

No time passes and he is over her, whispering things again. 

“Vermin…” she hears, and tears pull from her eyes. 

But he is there, kissing them away, pulling her hands once again high over her head, hushing her still. 

“No, hush my sweet,” he breathes in her ear, and kisses the sorrow away, unaware of the rage and the fury that is building behind her expression.

The screams are back, _no no NO NO NO_ her mind is shaking with fury, but on the bed, Rose returns to him, folds her arms around his neck and curls her body into his, smears her slick against the black fabric at his thigh as he grinds into her. 

He is speaking again and inside, Rose wants to drown him out, to kill him, to silence that stupid, fat-lipped mouth forever, wants to grind his throat beneath her palm, to punch a hole in his beautiful, stupid face. 

“... I’m sorry.”

It is so quiet she almost misses it. 

The dragon of her rage is soothed and coaxed into quiet.

He is inside her, then, out of nowhere, and yet it makes sense. His stupid First Order pants are sliding down his ass cheeks, his hands hold hers still, high over her head, and he is pumping furiously within her. 

Her legs are wide open, heels digging into his flesh as she cries and begs for more, taking everything he can give with a trembling body. 

These scenes repeat, seemingly for hours, his velvet-lipped, hot rod cock tearing through her. Once in the shower, her hand on his throat, crushing. He is blue in the face as he comes, and she only tightens until she releases, but when she does, they see stars, and he cries out her name. Another, on the floor, rug burns on her knees from riding him until he pleas for mercy. And more, as he slams her into the wall and tears at her hair and pounds her until she’s sure she is broken and bruised. 

And another, with his chest pressed to her back, his mouth on her neck, cock so deep inside her she’s strangled and choking with tears, but they aren’t from sorrow, but from lo-... ve. And she feels him everywhere, inside and out, over and around, she swallows him down like fresh rainfall on a parched tongue. He is fire and death and rage and fury and he smells like sulfur and bloodshed, but when she comes on his cock, he is cleansed. He prays her name in dulcet lullaby lilts as he rides her through, as he reaches around her waist and draws her tight to his body, as he opens his mouth and -...

Rose wakes up. 

She is disoriented for long, excruciating moments, staring at the rocky ceiling of her Resistance base dorm. In moments like this, after visceral dreams like these, it is hard to discern between reality and fiction, between imagination and truth. 

She creeps a hand slowly up to her breast and feels for her pendant, squeezing it in her palm and taking in a steady breath. Understanding comes back to her. 

She is in her own room on Ajan Kloss, not in a bedroom she has never seen on a First Order ship. Her limbs are tied down by the weight of blankets, not the weight of… she cannot even think it, the idea of such makes her stomach churn with nausea. 

She glances around her room, slowly, wide-eyed as a doe, and takes in the objects of her life here: her toolkit on the rickety table, her extra change of clothes returned fresh from laundry, her slouching boots, the tops sagging over onto the floor, her journal lying on the floor nearby where she’d left it the night prior, next to her datapad. 

Her eyes slip back to the wall beside her bed where she’s pasted pictures she’s drawn from her journal: fathiers, Finn, Paige, flowers, trees, more Paige, Hays Minor, and… 

General Hux. 

Rose always hung the pictures she drew; putting the strongest memories of her life up on the wall helped her to feel less lonely. But she scowls as she studies _his_ drawing, wondering what had ever possessed her to hang that particular picture.

The memory still leaves a foul taste on her tongue. Rose leans forward and grabs the edge of the paper, intent on tearing it down, but the motion forces her to shift her thighs, and what she feels there makes her pause. 

Slick, hot and sticky…

With a deep feeling of dread, Rose slides back, tentative, and slowly lifts the hem of her sleep pants, parting her thighs to grant entrance to her two middle fingers. They come out soaked in slick, slippery and slimy as she rubs the viscous cum between two fingertips. 

Moritified heat blooms over her cheeks, and Rose lays back down onto her pillow, glaring up at the drawing of the stupid First Order General. She tries to remember the rage of their first encounter, the fury that stirred her heart, the overwhelming desire to leave a mark on him, but all that she can ponder are foggy, cloudy flashes of her dream: a crop of fire hair between her thighs, the delicious, splitting feeling she had when he took her from behind, the taste of his flesh beneath her tongue, the smell of his cologne and sweat and sex.

Pushing all thought and reason to the back of her mind, Rose lowers her hand and crawls her fingers through the damp, curly coarse hairs at the apex of her thighs. Her eyes are on her drawing as she spreads her thighs wide, as she dips one finger in, just so. 

But in the dream, he filled her. 

Chasing that feeling, Rose closes her eyes and stuffs herself full with her two fattest fingers. She’s so entirely soaked there is no resistance, and she curls her fingers upward, in towards her navel, hooking to rub where it feels so good. 

With her eyes closed, she can imagine the dream, not in its entirety, but in snippets. How Hu-... the man used his tongue, flickered over her bud. She tries to replicate it, flicking her thumb over the hood of her clit, then again when it doesn’t feel just right, sighing a tiny moan when she gets it. 

She remembers how H-... **the man** pressed her pelvis to the floor and filled her with his cock, stuffed her full until she was whining and thrashing with pleasure. She replicates this, too, using her palm to press into her abdomen, lifting on her heels to get the right angle, and thrusts rapidly with both fingers, unable to help the moan that trembles from her lips as the feelings she had in the dream start to come true. 

She remembers how H-... Hux entered from behind, how he trailed his lips over her neck, massaged through her hair, how he kissed her and lifted her hip to get in deep. She tries for deep but is disappointed, unable to get just the right place without toy, or man. 

She stops, frustrated, and opens her eyes with a huff, meeting the tiny, grainy stare of the man himself that she’d drawn. 

Rose burns with embarrassment, and raises her hand to rip Hux’s picture from the wall, slapping it face down on the bed beside her. 

But it’s still there, and she knows it, looming in her vicinity like memories of the man himself. 

Rose renews her efforts, pushing herself up on her heels and tilting her thighs, getting her fingers in there as much as she can, curling them upward, massaging, tugging, pulling on that place within her that will trigger her pleasure. 

The feeling starts to build, and Rose pants with eager intention to finish, lowering her other hand to pull back the soft flesh hooding her clit, peeping down over it with the pad of her middle finger, beginning to roll it round and round with gentle tugs. 

Her legs tremble with exertion, with the pressure it takes to keep her upward and suspended in her pleasure. She hurries on, afraid to lose her stride, and curls her fingers again and again, pants turning to tiny moaning whines as her orgasm builds. 

Her other hand rolls and rolls over her clit, pumping the flesh around it to protect it from direct assault, but applies pressure, causing herself to bark out a moan which she hides with a bite of her lip. 

In her ashamed and secretive mind, it is Hux, kneeling between her thighs, with his long, pale fingers inside her, one of them marked with a silver crescent shape from her teeth. He is coaxing her, calling her his pretty petal and sweet kitten, thumbing roughly over her clit, and as he stretches her cunt, readying her for his cock, she comes apart at the seams, rolling her hand and fingers in their prospective places as pleasure pours from her. 

“Hux-!” she is gasping, beside herself, out of control, and she trembles and tightens her muscles around her fingers, pretending it is him, imagining how his stupid, ridiculous face would look in orgasm, beholden to her pleasure. 

When she is finished, there is nothing but shame. 

Rose slides the picture of Hux between the bed and the wall, unable to look at it. She timidly licks the worst of the mess from her fingers, chastising herself for having the thought on whether or not Hux would like the taste. She gets herself up out of bed, hits the common women’s fresher, and by the time she is ready and at her post on base, Hux is all but forgotten. 

She is sitting with her team, Val and Eko, laughing as Eko fails once more in First Order systems hacking modules, teasing one another as General Leia approaches. Rose does not see her or notice her presence until that wrinkled, wisened hand is pressed to her shoulder, blue and silver ring glinting in the morning light. 

“Rose, I need you,” she utters kindly, then slips away. 

Rose follows her like a duckling, eager for another job. They pause in a secluded area of the cave, and Leia hands Rose a data chip with a light smile. 

“I have a specific job for you, seeing as you have some experience now with espionage.”

Rose’s eyes light up as she takes the data chip, her lips pulling into a brilliant smile. 

“Oh? You want me to go on another mission?”

“Not quite,” Leia states with a secretive smile. “Someone on the inside of the Order has turned coat.”

Rose’s eyes widen with this news, as shocked as anyone would be. “No way… an Order operative? That’s … just… wow.”

“I know,” Leia agrees with a nod. “The thing is Rose, we need someone to handle him and his information, and he… well, he asked for you specifically.”

A slightly uneasy feeling overcomes Rose. She grimaces. 

“Err… he-... asked for me? Who is the spy?”

Leia is cryptic as she glances around the base, assuring that no one is listening, that they are alone, before she says, in a quiet, under the breath tone, “General Hux.”

Rose’s cheeks burn. They turn bright red, her head swims in the heat, and before she can even consider the audacity of swearing before the royal General Leia Organa, the words are out of her mouth. 

“Well, kriff.”

  
  



	2. Hux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains a line concerning brief fantasies of non-con.

The hangar is bright with its large, overhead bank lighting, bathing the expansive space in a white, hazy-edged glow.The troopers before him stand at perfect attention as Hux readies himself to rattle off some report or address or some such rallying speech.

There comes a sudden rocking rumble, like an explosion in a far-off cloister of the ship, and while dampened, the sound still slithers down his spine as a deeply-buried memory and he has to close his eyes and steady himself; gather his strangely fraying wits and thoughts that seem too scattered and too ephemeral for comfort.

Hux sways on his feet as a weight rocks against his legs, and his eyes snap open.

Strangely, the hangar before him now lies empty, but what truly draws his attention is the fierce, tugging grip on the fabric over his thighs. He looks down with wild eyes, and is truly taken aback at the sight that greets him. 

It’s _her._

He knows her now. The pain in his finger would not ebb until he poured over all available records.

_Rose Tico._

Kneeling before him like she knelt on the floor that one fateful day, donning once again that tight-fitting Major’s uniform. Her expression is fierce, but her hands are unbound, and she’s pawing at him with a rough intensity that makes a tight-swallowing heat coil low in illicit places. Despite himself, it frightens him. He tries to draw away but finds he cannot. He is anchored, by her hands and by her piercing, hateful gaze as her warm, nimble fingers ghost over the front of his trousers, soft and feathery despite how clearly she loathes him in her expression.

He is transfixed as she glares up at him, and before he can wonder _how,_ she’s plunged her hot, tight grip into his undone fly and, stars, he’s already hard. Her fingers slither through the fabric and grab hold and the touch of her against his skin startling. His hand shoots out to grip her by the hair and wrench her away, but he only succeeds in tipping off her Major’s cap. It bounces against the floor of the hanger and rolls partly away as she withdraws her hand from his trousers and pulls through his painfully hard cock. 

His heart stills.

She smirks down at the length of him held in her hand, as if in mocking, and it kills him, though he knows not why. Her mouth is moving but he cannot hear her words, only feel the warm bloom of her breath on his fevered skin.

But when she glances back up and he meets her gaze, he knows.

Her eyes say it.

_Bastard._

He struggles; she snarls.

His heart leaps as she roughly tugs him forward with a hand on the back of his thigh and he’s powerless-

_weak_

-as her long lashes flutter over her closing eyes and she pitches forward and the warm, tight violence of her mouth is on him, around him, and it tears a struggling, strangled moan from his lips as she runs the whole of her mouth down and up from base to tip.

His gloved fingers tangle in her hair, mussing the silk-soft strands as she takes him deep and growls against him, the vibration of her voice jittering over his body in hot-cold gooseflesh.

He pulls her closer, even as a fresh roil of disgust and confusion takes hold. This is _filthy_ , what she is doing, what he is letting her do. She’s a rebel, vermin, beneath him. This is a disservice to the oath he swore and the uniform he wears. _Shameful._ But-

She moans and it tears through him like fire.

She swirls her tongue against the underside of the head of his cock and his breath punches out ragged, each hollowed pull of her cheeks and soft, wet slide of her mouth wrenching the tension in his hips even tighter. She opens her eyes again and locks her gaze with his, and into those deep, dark, glaring pools, Hux is falling, going under, as she adds her hand and squeezes and redoubles her effort and speed. The slurping sounds echoing in his ears makes him burn, but from pleasure or humiliation he cannot tell. He cannot _help_ his hips stuttering forward, and he rocks into the sensation of her slip-sliding fingers and her plush, blood-flushed lips as she edges him higher with another hard suck.

His mouth hangs slack, panting, expression drawn as if pained and he loses himself in the fire in her eyes; the determination and the spirit he’s wanted so badly to stop from admiring. 

But he can’t. And he’s reaching the end.

Below him, Rose’s pulled lips curl into a dark, satisfied smirk around his cock. 

Dread spikes, but he’s too far gone. He can’t stop. The straining cork of pressure inside him is about to fail. His head falls back, eyes clenched tight, and-

She bites.

Pain, not pleasure, blooms white hot and searing, but it radiates instead from the back of his skull as his head knocks punishingly against the ground. 

His eyes fly wide as his upper body is hauled up by the fabric of his shirt from where he lays. He sees Rose’s dark, liquid gaze just before she slots her mouth against his and, automatically, he opens to her and coaxes her lips apart with his tongue. As if in contest, she licks into him as his hand curls around the back of her head, fingers now bare; he holds her steady and drinks her in deep.

He shouldn’t want this. Every instinct within him rages and berates, calling him a fool and a traitor, but when she whimpers into his mouth, the sound throttles his heart and the insane urge to hold her, to cherish her, rises up like bile in the back of his throat.

As if sensing the riot within him, she wrenches away, drops her hold of him, and Hux sprawls back again onto the floor, groin still playfully tight and body trembling with sudden rage and incessant need.

The room around them, he is slow to see, is dark; dank. Underground. A dirty, rundown hovel.

It is how he’s always pictured it to be, the hole the Resistance has crawled into and claimed as their own. Now, he is its prisoner.

It crawls over his skin, this place, with its dripping, shadowed walls that all at once cloister in too tight and yet expand ever outward into the vast, empty maw of space. She has caught him, tricked him, and now they are spinning through the turbulent, cold death of the galaxy and all he has made lies destroyed and wasted in the fire that heats the hearth in the back of this musty peasant’s den.

But... the flickering light moves like warm starshine against the bronzy gold of Rose’s bare body. She shifts back, and he realizes she’s naked and astride him. Arousal and hate war within as his long-fingered hands fly to her hips, attempting to throw her off, but the hard press of his grip only makes her sigh in pleasure, and suddenly all he wants is to hear that sound again. He presses firmly once more and is rewarded as she writhes deliciously above him.

He attempts again to lift his upper body from the floor, but Rose clasps a hand over his eyes and presses him back as she lifts onto her knees and pivots forward. As his head once again comes to rest against the ground, he can feel her lips move in words against his mouth, even as her voice whispers instead into his ear.

“Allow me, General.”

Her free hand trails down his chest, burning away like a flame-torch the last vestiges of his clothing. 

She dances her fingers over the slight-defined muscles of his abdomen, his body aching, stomach clenching. Revulsion beats at the base of his spine.

_Thin as a slip of paper…_

“Shh, Armitage,” Rose soothes, her voice still in his ear even as she slowly sits back up, hand falling from his face.

When he is finally allowed to look up at her, it is only to see the drawn-together expression of exertion and pleasured agony that twists beautifully upon her face as she lowers herself in his lap and takes him into her body. He makes a strangled sound as the molten warmth of her core envelopes his cock in a slow, tortuous descent; he feels every ridged inch of her until she’s sitting flush, hip to hip, and his labored groan mixes with the dark, low moan he’s coaxed from her.

She gives him no time to prepare, but begins to roll her body, rising with fluid motions away and up, causing him to draw out, only to bear down and impale herself on his cock once more. Hux is hypnotized by the silk squeeze of her cunt and of the sumptuous bounce of her full, pert breasts. 

Her hand reaches down and presses against his throat, making him wheeze.

“You’re mine now,” she says, her wet, swollen lips parting as she pants for air, riding him like an undulating wave of power he could never tame.

He grits his teeth. He fights it. She comes down hard upon him, and the sound that escapes his lungs is an embarrassing whine that he attempts to wrestle under control, making him choke under her firm grip. Inside, this indignance, her lording over him, churns his fury. She is nothing to him, less than nothing, and yet his traitorous hand slides up her smooth, full body to palm her breast.

His rage coalesces, a thousand bright-red, roaring beams of cruelty streaking across the dark above them like a falling star of hellfire. It threatens to obliterate them both. He shakes with it, with the deep sluice of pain and hate that runs ever through him.

_She wants to kill him. She wants to slash him with her fingernails. She wants to bite him until he is unrecognizable. She would, if given half a chance, beat him until his limbs are broken sticks. She smells his weakness. She will slaughter him._

If he can hold onto that, sink into that river of savagery and self loathing, he can resist her.

“No,” she says, a soft and tempting siren. ”Surrender.” She looks down upon him with an emotion he’s seen so little of, he cannot name it. “Let go.”

He’s falling; the fire he stokes inside rip-roars blazing hot, devouring everything in its wake, leaving him hollowed and burnt. The only sensation that fills in the black space left behind is building pleasure as her body slides him home inside her.

Her hand releases his throat to trail down his chest as she rocks over him in a slick, gliding rhythm. Her fingers touch his breast, a fluttering caress, before she sinks down inside and takes his breaking, beating heart all for herself. She is stronger than he’s realized, and he cannot withstand her.

He moves, finally, to meet her thrusts, and it feels so good it _hurts._

Soon, he is pulling her down against him as he pounds up into her, and he watches as she starts to break apart, her cries sweet and sobbing as she flutters and clenches and still he takes her, needing to give her everything he can. 

His vision clouds.

The hate sizzles to the end of its wick, crumbles, and becomes a rippling echo drowned out by the resonant hum of desire.

And-

He lets go.

He surrenders.

And she comes, with his name on her lips like a prayerful sob. 

The room tilts, and they are pressed flush against each other in some sun-soaked place that smells of dewy, white flowers. A breeze rolls through the open-air lanai, fluttering the long, thin curtains that diffuse the light around their naked, sweat-slicked bodies.

He has her up against the wall, suspended, pinned there with her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he supports her with his hands and rocks up into her. She tips her head back and he buries his face in the warm column of her throat, fucks her deep and slow and hard until he’s sure she knows, must know, how much he loves her. 

“Oh stars, yes,” Rose moans in his ear. “Hux, please, _yes.”_

He nibbles the skin of her neck as she yanks at the bottom fringe of his hair, the babble of words from her mouth becoming more breath than speech, and he strains himself to pump faster, pull her down harder, reach into her as far as he can. She throbs around him like the beat of their hearts as she tightens her hold and digs her nails into his shoulders, snaps like a bow in his arms and rips him apart with the cresting, clinching wave of her pleasure.

He holds her in his shaking grasp and feels the tight cinch of his own orgasm finally, blessedly, snap, radiating like a pulsar from where they’re joined.

_“Rose-”_

It blankets him in a feeling so intense his whole body goes numb. She steals his breath, and with each successive aftershock that spills into her, he is sure they’re melting down, being forged and reformed together, so that no blade would be sharp enough to part them.

He’s still reeling, vision tunneling, as she tangles her hand in his hair and wrenches his neck back and to the side. He’s so wrung, he barely feels it as she dives for him, sucks his tender flesh into her sweet, hot mouth--

and bites.

Hux wakes with a groaning jerk, the grey silk sheets of his bed wrapped haphazard around his aching body.

It takes a moment for him to realize where he is. Why the room in which he lies is dark and cold and why the clench and release of his hands are met with air instead of sumptuous flesh. He’s breathing hard, and the fabric of his loose sleep shirt is sticky with perspiration.

A dream, he realizes, his thoughts as thick and as slow as engine oil.

Indignation rears its head. The _audacity_ of- of _that girl_ . How _dare_ she invade not only his waking thoughts but his _subconscious_ mind as well? Damn her!

His anger flashes hot.

She has no right, no _place._ She was a scrabbling rat wallowing in squalor, a tenacious weed the First Order had been lamentably unable to purge in the razing of her homeworld. She’d no place _licking his boots clean_ let alone- 

The mere thought of her touch makes his stomach churn with nausea as he tries to wrestle his pounding heartbeat. 

No matter. Her touch was a figment of his overworked imagination and nothing more. He was free of her torment, and he should banish her from his thoughts. 

A deep, shaking sigh expels from his lungs as he rakes a hand through his hair, turning to try and peel the sheets back into some semblance of order. It is then that the throb of arousal between his legs reaches his tired, sleep-addled brain and begins to beat in earnest.

Hux grits his teeth, on his side and glaring at the wall across from the bed, right hand pressed against the bottom sheet, as if anchoring himself will bleed away the tight need in his abdomen. But his splayed fingers only serve to draw his attention to the silver-white crescent scar that remains an imprint of _her_ upon his body. 

A flash, an image, sifts through his mind like draining water: the benevolent pleasure in her delicate, fierce face as she rolls atop him and welcomes him again and again into the soft hush of her heat.

Disgusting, he thinks harshly, even as the flickering remembrance pulses down low in his groin, begging to be sated.

The scar stares back at him and whispers dark, delicious encouragement. 

No one would know, not even _her._

A frustrated growl rumbles in his chest as he rolls once again onto his back, lip pulled up in a snarling sneer, as if surely there is someone else to blame for this unfortunate circumstance. He plunges one hand down below the waistband of his fabric underthings and pushes them away to wrap around his aching cock. With the first stroke, his gnarled, surly expression breaks into something soft and drawn, lips parting as even the barest pressure releases some of the torment. He cannot cage his whispered, low-toned moan.

His pale, green eyes flutter closed as he starts a stern, steady rhythm, and behind his eyelids he is unable to stop from seeing _her,_ Rose, once again. He tries to picture her in whimpering subjugation, a quick, harsh slaking of his pleasure made even more so by her unwilling involvement, but-- it’s not what his traitorous body wants, and satisfaction eludes him.

Reckless and desperate, he invents a new fantasy, despite the warning bells and last vestiges of shame that still haunt the back of his mind. He sees her lucious, soft body beneath him on his bed, her dark hair fanned behind her like onyx. Her arms fall back upon the sheets, the fight gone out of her, but not because he’s taken it by force. Here, in this precious bauble of non-reality, he lets himself pretend that he has won her heart, and that she opens her thighs and body for him willingly.

Her expression when he cups her sex makes him twitch and his grip stutter. He imagines sliding the tips of two fingers through her slick folds as her chest rises and falls with tightly-wound anticipation. And when he dips inside, her eyes close tight and her mouth falls open and she mewls tenderly as he strokes in and up, filling every inch of her with his touch.

His jaw tightens and his teeth grind as he cuffs faster around his cock, shoulders pressing harder into the bedding as he bucks into his own hand. 

He fills her with a third finger, when she’s ready, and whorls his thumb gently over and around her pearl, bending over her and bracing his weight with an arm, watching her face intently to map and memorize her pleasure. Her eyes, barely slitted open and shining like wet glass, drink him down as she gasps and moans and clutches his arm and writhes beneath him.

He draws further into her as he crooks his fingers and leans forward to take her lips. 

This time, their kiss is tender, fluttering and soft. There is no contest in it, only open-mouthed give as his tongue slowly delves within her; a soft plunge. 

She arches as he slides increased pressure over her clit, his fingers drenched and pistoning within, and as she peaks, he can feel her whole body clench around him. She cries into his mouth, and the image of her shattering so beautifully before him pushes Hux over the edge. 

A ragged, strungout gasp takes him by surprise as lights burst behind his eyes and he comes, hard, all over his hand and stomach, spilling in rapid pulses that leave him panting and shuddering in its aftermath.

He goes limp.

Finally. 

The fire in his belly has been cooled at last, and he is left utterly spent and exhausted. The only sound he can hear is his panting in the quiet hum of his quarters.

He allows himself a few moments of hazy bliss, no thoughts, until the disgust at the slippery cum on his shirt and the shame of what he’s imagined comes flooding in to drown him. He throws the rest of the bedsheets roughly away, glaring at the chronometer at his bedside that denotes the absurdly early time, and rouses himself enough out of despondency to stagger into the fresher. He hopes, although it is a losing battle, that thoughts of _her_ will at least be kept at bay for the rest of his oncoming shift. 

Later, after another day of brow-beating from Kylo Ren, haughty pomp from Pryde, and raging fury at the latter’s usurped, undeserved power, Hux sits at the desk in his quarters and debates, again, his choices. 

He stares blankly at the datapad’s private channel he knows is secure enough to keep him relatively safe, but even so, the message he has typed there remains unsent. For now, the course of his life remains unchanged. But he knows, deep down inside, that he cannot go on living in the shadow of his former prowess. Stifled by Pryde and sidelined by Ren; it will eventually kill him. 

And so-

_Let go._

The words reverberate up like the echo of crackling hearth flame. 

It all must be razed, he realizes with grim finality. Only then will he be able to shift through the ashes and reform his destiny. 

In a moment where he sees himself from a position above his own body, his fingers glide along the keyboard, and he barely even hesitates as he presses the _/return_ key.

The message sends, and the stars shift.

Hux swallows hard, compartmentalizes his strumming dread, and goes back to his work.

Hours pass, and it is late, early into the next day as he readies himself for a few hours of sleep. Before he reaches his bed, he sees the indicator light of a received message blinking on the datapad.

_/Your message has been received. We will assign a communications team member with whom you may correspond._

He stares at the line of text as if he misremembers why they are replying to him; as if the message itself is a mistake. But it is not. 

_/Very well_ , he replies, and then he pauses, head cocked slightly to one side as he caresses absently the scar upon his finger. 

The Resistance…

 _She_ would be there, surely...

He loathes her still, despite his disgustingly depraved fantasies, but… perhaps he can admit that his intrigue over her has not yet been completely appeased. 

Before he can think better off it, he adds:

_/I require a specific handler with which I will correspond, and no one else._

Wherever the Resistance is hiding, it must have been their day cycle, for little time passes before he receives another communique. 

_/We will try and accommodate you as best we can. Whom did you have in mind?_

Hux glares at the datapad, as if it should already know the answer to this absurd question and that it is an unimaginably undignified thing to ask him to spell out his shame again so plainly.

 _/The Tico girl,_ he types, as his stomach tightens and flips and betrays the stoic, icy expression on his face.

_/The one that bit me._

**Author's Note:**

> Follow the authors on Twitter: [ Brit Hux-Tico](https://twitter.com/ardentlyloveyou) & [ ElfMaidenofLight](https://twitter.com/girl_among_Mts)


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